Ghosts
by ChemiToo
Summary: England just wants to go to sleep, but child America is making that impossible with him running scared from the ghosts in his house. Big bro to the rescue.
1. Chapter 1

England was exhausted. He quietly closed the door to America's room and proceeded down the hall to his quarters. It had taken a while, but he eventually had gotten the child to settle down long enough to fall asleep. He was getting feistier as of late when England came to visit him, vehemently fighting him against taking naps even though it was clear that he could use one. This, unfortunately, left his older brother with a very cranky and overtired colony to deal with, and it was draining. He pushed the door of his room open and froze as the hinges squealed loudly in protest. He hesitated in the doorway, praying that the sound didn't wake America up. He didn't think he could take another two hours of "but I'm not tiiiired," or "I need a drink," despite the fact that he had guzzled down three glasses of milk already and clearly wasn't thirsty. Oh, and then of course, this: "Hey, England? I gotta go pee," _Ugh._

Satisfied that his brother wasn't awakened, England proceeded into his room and placed the candle on his nightstand. He peeled off his jacket and boots, placing them neatly on the trunk at the foot of the bed. He barely had the energy to pull on his nightclothes before collapsing onto the mattress with a heavy sigh. He'd even left his curtains open. Eh, it didn't matter. Good _God_, lying down felt amazing. He closed his eyes, feeling his achy body sinking into the mattress and thoroughly enjoying the sensation. He rolled over and blew out the candle. He smiled, nuzzling his face into the pillow. Between America, the ever-present squabbles with France, and increasing turbulence in his Indian colonies, the British Empire was left with little energy to do much else besides eat and sleep. And sleep was exactly what he was going to do now: a lot of it.

"England?" someone whispered.

"Hmm?" England answered groggily, still half-asleep.

"Hey, England—you awake?" the voice asked, closer this time.

"Mmph…" England mumbled, starting to fall back to sleep again. He jumped as a tiny hand grabbed his shoulder and shook it. Normally, a child's nudge wouldn't have done much of anything, but America's shove nearly knocked the other nation out of his bed.

"What?!" England snapped as he clutched onto the comforter in surprise, sitting bolt upright. In the moonlight coming through his window, he could just make out his little brother's figure perched on the bed. "Oh, America," England said sleepily, rubbing his eyes, "Sorry…what's wrong?"

"There's ghosts in my room," the boy whispered, eyes wide with terror.

England smiled, pulling his little brother to his chest in a comforting hug.

"Come, now, America, there are no ghosts in your room. I checked before you went to sleep, remember?" he soothed, smoothing his brother's hair.

"Yeah, but they waited until you left!" America cried into England's chest, "Now they won't leave me alone!"

"Do you want me to chase them away for you?" England asked as patiently as he could manage, suppressing a yawn. America shook his head, burying his face into England's shirt.

"No, it didn't work last time," he reasoned, "I wanna sleep in here with you. Please?"

England hesitated; the child kicked like a mule in his sleep, but he wasn't about to get any rest at all with America scampering up and down the hallway in fear every time a floorboard creaked.

"All right, you can sleep with me," he conceded, scooting over to give his brother some room on the mattress.

"Huzzah!" America cheered happily as England threw the blanket over the two of them. America snuggled up to England, grabbing a fistful of his older brother's shirt and plunking his head on England's outstretched arm. "Thanks, England!" he said.

"You're welcome," England yawned, "Now go to sleep. Good-night,"

"Good-night!" America chimed. England closed his eyes, sinking back into sleep as his brother's body heat crept over his chest. He wasn't such a bad kid, really.

"Hey, England?" came the whisper mere seconds later.

"What?" England whispered back, frowning.

"Do you think they'll come in here? The ghosts?" America asked anxiously. England cracked one eye open; America was staring into his face, clearly terrified, and trembling.

"No, of course they won't," England reassured him, exhaustion temporarily forgotten. He draped his free arm around his brother and rubbed his back gently, "You're safe with me. I won't let anything get you. Okay?"

"…okay," America agreed hesitantly, snuggling closer to England and closing his eyes. He was still shaking. England watched him for a moment and small smile crept over his face. Annoying or no, he was still his little brother, and he loved him. He gently rubbed America's back and muttered quiet "there, there"s until his brother's breathing became shallow and even. Satisfied that America was asleep, England closed his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

"England, wake up!" America hissed suddenly, jolting him awake.

"What is it?" England asked worriedly, but he didn't need any further explanation. Standing in the doorway, bathed in moonlight, was a silent figure watching him with cold, almost black eyes.

"Who are you?" England demanded, leaping out of bed and putting his arm out in front of America protectively. The boy was wrapped tightly in the comforter, only his face peeking out from behind the fabric.

Whoever the intruder was, he didn't answer. He was quite tall, England noted, and clearly one of the Natives in the New World. He was translucent, with wisps of what appeared like smoke silently creeping off of him and disappearing. He didn't appear to be that old—perhaps in his early twenties, with a bright blue feather woven into his long black hair. His eyes were what made the Englishman nervous—they were very sharp, staring at him—_through_ him.

"What do you want?" England demanded as boldly as he could manage while standing in front of him in his pajamas. The man said nothing, but stepped out into the hallway. England frowned, taking a step toward the door.

"Noo!" America protested, leaping out of the blanket and grabbing the back of England's shirt.

"America, stay here," he commanded, "I'll be right back,"

"No, they're gonna get you!" America cried, on the verge of hysterical. England turned and gently unlatched America's fist from his clothing, taking his little hand in both of his.

"They're not gonna get me, I promise," England lied. Actually, he had no idea what was going on. Still, he couldn't tell America that, "You just stay here and lock the door," he instructed, "I'll say something when I get back so you'll know it's me, all right? Don't open it for anyone else," he elaborated. He didn't know what good a lock was going to do to keep spirits at bay, but it would probably bring America some comfort, at least.

America sniffled, tears rolling down his face, as England turned and headed for the hallway.

"B-be careful!" America said.

"I will," England promised as he stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him. A split second later, the plunking sound of America's bare feet sped across the floorboards and the door behind England locked with a definitive click.

He licked his lips nervously, absently thinking to himself that he should have brought his musket with him. Then again, would a musket work on a ghost? England looked up; the man from earlier was standing in front of him, flanked on either side by two additional spirits. Like the first, these two were tall and appeared to be from the New World. Unlike the first, however, they were both armed with spears. England gulped, mustering his courage.

"All right, what do you want?" he asked boldly. No response. "Well?" England pressed, legitimately nervous.

He watched as the first apparition slowly raised his arm, pointing toward America's living room at the end of the hallway. England looked at him, then toward the living room anxiously.

"You want me to go in there?" he asked. The spirit pointing toward the living room nodded. England hesitantly approached the living room, not at all comfortable with the idea of walking with his back to them, but he had little choice. He briskly walked down the hallway, resisting the urge to sprint, and came to a stop in the living room.

"All right, now what?" he asked, turning around. He jumped; the three spirits were directly in front of him, staring him down. He took an involuntary step backward, bumping into America's fireplace. A thud and a clattering sound announced that he had dislodged something from the mantle. He stole a look to his right. The spear France had given America as a token of good faith after the war a few years back had toppled from the metal hook holding it in place. Something about it belonging to a chief from New France, or other such rubbish.

England snapped his attention back to the three apparitions in front of him. They had moved farther back, at a reasonable distance now (thank God), and the first man was pointing at the mantle behind him. England looked back at the spear and gingerly took it in his hands.

"Is this…yours?" he asked, cursing France in the back of his mind. That stupid frog, giving America a haunted spear. Probably just jealous that he wanted to be England's brother and not his—

The man nodded, more vigorously this time.

"Oh, well, you can have it back," England said, taking a cautious step forward and handing the spear to the man at arm's length, "Here-America and I don't want it,"

The man just looked at him, shaking his head.

"What?" England blurted, both perplexed and annoyed, "Isn't this what you want?"

For answer, the man pointed toward the front door at the opposite end of the room.

"You…want me to take this outside?" England deduced, holding the spear like it was the Mona Lisa. The last thing he wanted to do was chip it or something. The spirit nodded, gesturing for him to head out the door.

"Can't you just take it?" England mumbled in annoyance. He immediately wished he hadn't, as the armed two men behind the one giving him instructions hefted their spears into the air in a threatening gesture. England yelped and stepped backward.

"All right, all right, I'm going!" he blurted, making sure to put France's spear below his waist in a non-aggressive gesture. Thankfully, the two spirits lowered their weapons and resumed watching him coldly.

"Let's go out then, gents," England said flatly as he headed toward the door and unlocked it. He stepped outside, shivering as his bare feet hit the cool, damp grass. He turned; the spirits were standing behind him, the spear-less one pointing toward the nearby river.

"I'll just shut the door, then-" he mumbled, mostly to himself, as he reached for the door handle. A silvery, iridescent spear blocked his hand from moving any further. He emitted a strangled cry and leapt backward, looking up into the face of a very disgruntled spirit. His eyes glittered murderously at him, reflecting the full moon above.

"O-or not," he stammered, looking to the unarmed ghost for guidance. The man was standing on a hill right next to America's house, pointing down at the river bank below. England ascended the hill, forsaking the open front door and coming to a stop beside him.

"All right…now what?" he asked, glancing sideways at the man. The Native was staring down at him; England shuddered involuntarily as their eyes locked. He quickly averted his gaze as the man put his arm into the air and abruptly brought it back down. England blinked, then looked back up at him again. What was that supposed to mean?

The spirit repeated the gesture, more aggressively this time. England looked at the river, then back to his not-so-friendly spirit guide once again.

"Throw it? Really?" he asked. The look on the man's face left no room for argument.

"Well, if you insist," he mumbled, hefting the spear over his shoulder and hurling it into the water below with all of his might. It hit the water with a splash, followed by a loud clattering noise. England flinched; had he thrown it into a rock or something? He worriedly stole a look at the spirit beside him—the man was nodding at him approvingly.

"Was that…it?" England squeaked as a cold breeze blasted him from behind. He shivered.

The man nodded again, turning around as if walking away.

"W-wait," England called, half-wishing he had just kept his mouth shut. The spirit stopped, but didn't turn around. Hopefully, he was listening. "Listen, you…you really scared my brother back there," he explained, "I apologize that your spear was stolen, but it wasn't his doing. Please, don't do that to him again," he blurted before he could stop himself, cursing his big mouth. What was he, mental?!

The man didn't respond, but nodded once before disappearing. England shivered as another breeze tossed his hair about and seemed to pass right through his nightclothes. He swore under his breath, folding his arms across his chest and dashing back into America's house. He slammed the door behind him, throwing the lock, and walked back toward his room. He rapped on the door twice, calling out.

"Hey, America," he called, "It's me—open up,"

A clicking sound immediately resounded from behind the door, and his brother threw it open.

"Are you okay?!" America cried, jumping up and throwing his arms around England's waist.

"I'm fine," England reassured him, "The ol' chap just wanted his spear back was all," he explained, patting America on the back.

"I saw from the window," America explained breathlessly, "I thought he was gonna make you jump into the river or something," he added darkly. England blinked—there were times where his little brother could be quite morbid, and he wasn't quite sure where he got it from. France, probably, terrible influence that he was.

"Well, he didn't," England said as he led America back to bed, "and he's not coming back," he added as he practically leapt onto the mattress and threw the covers over him.

"You sure?" America asked skeptically, raising an eyebrow at him warily as he climbed under the covers.

"Positive," England answered, shuddering.

"You cold?" America asked, snuggling up to England and shivering a little, "Whoa, you're freezing!" he exclaimed, recoiling back from his older brother.

"Well, I was outside in my pajamas—you didn't notice when you hugged me?" England said flatly, shivering and rubbing his hands over his arms, "I'll warm up in a minute,"

"I'll help," America offered sweetly, shuffling back over to England and curling up next to his chest.

"Thanks," England said, shivering a couple more times. America chatted with him about various things as he tried to warm up, from "I saw this horse, and it was HUGE," to "where does the sun go at the end of the day?" England answered him to the best of his ability, laughing aloud at some of his brother's inquiries and stories. After a while, he started feeling warm and sleepy and was starting to doze off as America piped up once again.

"Hey, England?"

"Mmm?"

"You know what?"

"What?"

"You're my hero, you know,"

England opened his eyes, staring down at America's bright blue ones. He was smiling at him with that very confident grin England was sure would get him into trouble one of these days. England smiled back, ruffling his brother's hair.

"Thank you, America," he answered, "That means a lot to me,"

His brother laughed, then fell silent. England assumed he was falling asleep again, which was fine by him. As for himself, he was on the verge of sweet, sweet unconsciousness, floating in a sea of-

"Hey, England?" he asked.

"America, go to sleep," England slurred.

"But I have a question," he whined.

"Fine," England sighed, "But after this you've got to go to sleep. Got it?"

"Yeah, yeah," America pouted, "But my question!"

"What is it?" England asked, starting to get irritated.

"What's your favorite color?" he asked. England sighed; he could practically taste his annoyance at his brother at that point.

"Red," he said flatly, "Now _go to sleep_,"

There was a lovely ten seconds of silence, then:

"Mine's blue," America whispered.

"America, I mean it," England warned.

"But-"

"So help me, I will kick you out of this nice warm bed if you say another word," England snapped. America yelped, then went silent. England smiled, victorious. Really, he wasn't such a bad kid.

* * *

America hovered over England worriedly as France changed the cloth on the Brit's forehead. He had barely gotten through the first sentence of his proposed attack plan on Germany at the meeting before fainting dead away onto the floor. No warning, no nothing. Just-BAM.

"He's gonna be okay, right?" he asked nervously as Russia walked back in.

"What did they say?" France asked.

"London has been bombed," Russia answered, joining the other two countries in staring worriedly at their unconscious ally.

"What, again?" America blurted incredulously, "Doesn't Germany have anything better to do?!"

"America, I mean it," England mumbled softly.

"Huh?" America asked, getting on his knees across from France, "What'd you say, dude?"

England didn't answer, but slowly pried one eye open.

"_Angleterre_?" France said. England groaned, opening his other eye.

"What…?" he muttered, blinking up at them, "America?" he asked, recognizing him first.

"Hey, man," America greeted, relieved, "You feeling okay? You kinda passed out on us,"

"Huh?" England asked, noticing France and Russia, "Oh, bollocks," he mumbled as he tried to sit up-America and France grabbed his arms to steady him. He looked down as the cool washcloth that had been on his head toppled into his lap and sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

"London," he stated, looking at France and frowning.

"You should be all right soon," France comforted, "You've been through this before, _non_?"

England chuckled bitterly.

"True," he admitted, "Very true,"

America offered to grab some ice for the goose egg forming on England's head and dashed out into the hallway. It was too bad about his capital city, but America was just glad that he was awake. He'll be all right, America assured himself as he rounded the corner, he'd see to it himself. He was the hero, after all. And, although he'd never say it aloud, England had been his hero many times.

Now, he would be certain to return the favor.

* * *

**Awright! I finally figured out that horizontal lines are a thing so transitions aren't as weird! I'm a slow learner...bear with me.**

**I don't know where I was going with this story, actually, except that I love little bitty America and England. ****Returrrrrnn the slaaaaaaaab. I don't think France actually meant to give America a haunted spear-I'm fairly new to the fandom, but he doesn't strike me as mean like that. At any rate, the property was returned to the environment rather than being hung up on a wall.  
**

**Thanks for taking the time to read ^_^**


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